Quiet Contemplation
by Alabaster86
Summary: Set in Season 1, in between 'Water' and 'Bastille Day', Laura Roslin, unable to sleep, uses the time to think and to grieve.


**Quiet Contemplation**

_**Set in Season 1, between 'Water' and 'Bastille Day'**_

Laura's eyes grew heavy and she let the book slip from her hands. It landed on her lap with a soft thump. Giving in momentarily to her fatigue, she allowed her eyes to close behind the reading glasses she wore and let her head fall back completely onto her pillow. It felt good to let go. Nighttime, though with the perpetual darkness of space, such words lost much of their traditional meaning, meant quiet in Colonial One, blessed, welcomed and _terrifying_ quiet.

Though the constant crises were difficult and emotionally wrenching, the fight to establish herself as a legitimate leader trying, at least those 'daytime' activities kept her agile mind occupied. There was little time to dwell on the state of humanity and the tragedy that had befallen it. There was even _less_ time to dwell on her personal pain.

Tucked in her little private room, the only sounds were that of the ship's engine, the occasional creaking of leather, one of the crew or perhaps Billy, shifting in his sleep, and her own breathing. And in her little private room, Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies, mourned.

Removing her glasses, she dabbed at her blue eyes and stifled a loud sob. Her shoulders trembled with the effort of remaining silent and her mind whirled with thoughts and emotions. The sheer amount of death was unfathomable. Sure, she knew the numbers well enough. There had once been billions of people, spread across twelve planets. Once there had been family and friends and those she respected and admired. Now there was a number on a whiteboard, a number that still decreased as the days passed: 47 958. Every time she erased a figure and replaced it with a new one, inevitably a lower one, her heart broke just a little bit more. It was a powerful reminder of humanity's precarious position. And it was a reminder of their vulnerability.

The inevitability of her own death from the cancer that grew inside her was a separate grief, a private one. Maybe she should be grateful. Who knew what horrors awaited the fleet over the months and years to come? But she _wasn't_ grateful. Laura was angry and sad and determined to defeat the cancer, beat its insidiousness into dust. Just the thought of the effort _that_ battle would cost her made the president even more tired.

With a shuddering sigh she picked up her book, 'Dark Day', given to her by Commander Adama. She had allowed herself the luxury of grief and now it was time to put it aside once more. Futilely her eyes scanned the small black print but Laura couldn't concentrate on its meaning.

"Damn," she cursed mildly, inserting her bookmark and snapping the novel shut.

Restless despite her exhaustion, the president stood up and stretched. She pulled back the window coverings and peered out into space. The Galactica was visible, its lights like tiny pinpricks of hope. Other smaller ships, there because of her determination to rescue whatever was left of humankind, surrounded the Galactica, satellites around a sun.

Briefly, she wondered what Commander William Adama was doing. The man intrigued Laura as much as he sometimes frustrated her. Letting the curtains fall back into place she stretched again before tightening the sash on her robe.

"Maybe some water," she mused.

She poured herself a mere mouthful, conscious of the current water shortage. Laura's body craved more but she desisted. What kind of leader would she be if she took more than was strictly necessary? No one would know and she could use her illness as an excuse. But that was not the way Laura Roslin did things.

"Madam President? I heard you moving around in here. Are you all right?" Billy poked his head cautiously through the thick curtains and blushed as soon as he caught a glimpse of his leader in her nightgown and robe.

Laura smiled sweetly at the young man. It was almost impossible not to. Billy, her aide, had been a godsend lately; protective, attentive, insightful and kind. If she could choose just one word to describe him, it would be 'decent'. There wasn't a back-stabbing, cut throat or mean bone in his entire body. He could be counted on to do the right thing and Laura was lucky to have him.

"I'm fine, Billy, just a bit anxious. You should get back to sleep." She took in his ruffled hair and the imprint of a leather chair arm on his cheek. Laura smiled again. He was definitely cute and she fought the urge to give said cheek a pinch and run a hand through his curls. "And thank you for your concern."

"Okay," he agreed, but not without hesitation. "Make sure to wake me if you need something." He gave her one last searching look, his face still slightly pink, before disappearing back into the main section of Colonial One.

Laura stared after him wistfully. If only all people were more like Billy; things would be so much easier to deal with. She had a feeling that nothing much would _ever_ be easy or simple again.


End file.
